by Robyn DeHart
“You are correct, of course. But I think you’ll see soon the full truth about George, not merely the penchant for wagering.”
“Perhaps. What is it about placing wagers that is so very thrilling for me?” she asked.
“I gambled some in school. Thought it wasn’t much of a gamble because I rarely lost. It’s how I raised the money to start Rodale’s. So I don’t have much desire to bet and gamble, as it were. Though I do know something about you I’d wager.”
“Indeed, and what would that be?”
“You would be a most passionate lover. I suspect no one else has recognized that in you. And I knew it, saw it in you even before we ever kissed.”
“You are scandalous.” But his words heated over her as if he’d reached across the carriage and touched her. Here in this darkened carriage where no one could see and yet he’d said things about the music and her playing as if he’d seen her, the real her, in a way that no one ever had.
“Perhaps. But no one can play the piano like that and not be a passionate person. It burns inside you, Clarissa, you merely need the right man to free it from its binds,” he said.
“And I suppose you believe yourself to be that man.” She said the words before she thought them through. He was also the man who had walked out on her the other night.
Not with you.
“I could be,” he said, his voice low and nearly a whisper.
She tried to say something, anything that would keep her from asking him why he’d left her, asking him why it couldn’t be her. She knew why. At least she knew all the logical reasons. They were from different stations in life. He obviously believed in love matches, he’d said as much one time. If he had tender feelings toward her, he would have made that known.
“Come here.” He didn’t allow her time to argue with him. He pulled her across the carriage and onto the seat next to him—well, in truth she was part on the seat and part on him.
“Trust me,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.
His lips were warm and gentle, and she tried to be unmoved by them, tried to ignore the desire coiling through them. But his kiss proved to be her complete undoing. She melted into him. His lips coaxed and she relented, opening to him. His tongue slid into her mouth a warm and shocking intrusion that sent shivers skittering across her flesh.
His hand cupped her face, pulling her closer to him and he deepened the kiss. Boldly, she moved her tongue against his and he groaned in response. Lust poured through her body, threatening to shut off every coherent thought, yet still she did not push him away. Finally he ended the kiss, but he only moved back from her enough so that she could see his face.
“Your kisses are intoxicating,” he said. “I was right in my estimation of you.”
“About the passion?” she asked dumbly.
“Yes. Chrissy, you are indeed a passionate woman. Do not waste such a thing on a man who hides the truth from you.”
Be passionate with me, she seemed to hear, though he hadn’t uttered those words. His eyes were so earnest, his words so blunt that she was taken aback. If she didn’t know better she would have thought that Justin did care for her. But that couldn’t be the truth.
She thought back to the young man he’d been those years ago. She’d been younger and she’d always thought him to be quite handsome, but he’d been so angry and caustic, and she’d been nervous around him all the time. He seemed less of all of that now. Oh, she still saw flashes of the anger heat his eyes, but he was able to temper it quickly. He had made peace with his father, with who Justin was. She envied him that, for she felt she was always trying to make peace with the person she was. And always falling short of the mark.
She thought suddenly of Rebecca, who would not have approved of her playing the piano with such transparent passion, let alone of her climbing into the carriage of a man on a moonlit night or allowing him to take such liberties with her. Again and again. She sighed. Why was it so very difficult for her to get things right?
“We are here now,” he said.
It was the first time she realized the carriage had stopped. Voices, laughing and talking surrounded them.
“Go ahead, look,” he motioned to the window of the carriage.
She gently pushed back the curtain to reveal the sight outside. There at the edge of the Thames was a large warehouse of a building, a worn-out sign read Rafferty’s. People were all around, women, clearly prostitutes judging by their shockingly low bodices and heavily kohled eyes, and men, gentlemen and lower classes all together. The women shamelessly rubbed against men as they walked to and from the gaming establishment.
To the right, against the far side of the building one man pressed a woman up against the wall, rocking back and forth into her while the woman clung to his shoulders. Clarissa’s breath caught and heat surged into her cheeks.
When the man was done, he merely backed up away from the woman, adjusted his pants and walked away. The woman lowered her skirts and fluffed her hair, then moved back into the crowd to tempt another man. It was shocking, more than shocking. Clarissa had heard of such things, but she’d never really believed they were out there, just beyond her clean and tidy parts of London. And there in the midst of the crowd, an arm slung around one of the scantily dressed women, was George.
Her George.
He was dressed as he normally did, his clothes impeccably tailored, himself well-groomed. But his shirt had been opened and he wore no cravat and that woman rubbed her hand on the swath of his exposed chest.
Clarissa’s own chest tightened and tears stung at her eyes. How could she have been so wrong about him? He’d been the perfect gentleman. For years they had been friends. For years he had treated her with respect. He had been charming, the perfect companion in every way. She would have sworn she knew him as well as she knew anyone.
“He has a penchant for fighting.”
She heard Justin say, but she couldn’t turn to face him yet, so she continued staring out the window. George gave the woman a big open-mouthed kiss and the thought that his lips had been on her own made Clarissa’s stomach churn.
“Boxing is not all that scandalous,” Justin continued, “but it would seem that he enjoys fighting outside of the ring as much, if not more, often goading men into fights. He’s violent, Chrissy. I wanted you to see the truth for yourself.”
If she’d been wrong in her estimation of George, then what did that mean for the rest of her life? More importantly, if Rebecca had been wrong about George, maybe she’d been wrong about everything. Maybe she’d been wrong in her estimation of Clarissa. Maybe the reason Clarissa struggled so much being a proper lady was because she simply didn’t have it in her. Suddenly, everything felt upside down and backwards.
She swiped angrily at her tears, then moved back into her seat, pressing her back into the cushion. “Please take me back home.”
“Chrissy, I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, you’re not.” She felt a sudden burst of anger. Anger directed not at George, but at Justin. He had done this to her. He had revealed the horrible truth about George. And, she realized with a start, not just the truth about George, but about her as well. Time and again, he had stirred her passions. He had revealed her own true nature. Why had he done that? “This is precisely what you wanted me to see.”
“Yes, I wanted you to see it, because I wanted you to know the man he really is. He is a man who has hidden his true nature from you. Do you think a man like that could ever be the husband you deserve?”
Her breath caught as a shocking idea occurred to her. Why had he done that? Did he have an ulterior motive she hadn’t seen until now? She waited for him to say something else, for him to offer to be that husband she deserved, but he fell quiet. Finally, she let out a breath. “Take me back. Now.”
…
They had not spoken at all the rest of the way back to her home. Clarissa had kept her eyes averted and concentrated on keeping herself from crying. Right now that was the only thi
ng that mattered. She didn’t want Justin to see her cry. Not for that. She felt like an utter fool.
He helped her back into the townhome and she found her way to the bedchamber. She called for her maid, made a silly excuse about falling asleep fully dressed and wanting to be more comfortable. The maid assisted her out of her dress and finally Clarissa was left alone. She went and stood at the window, looking out at the darkness.
It would be morning soon and she’d have to pretend as if nothing had happened tonight. As if she hadn’t shared yet another passionate kiss with Justin Rodale. Pretend as if she hadn’t spent time alone in a carriage with a dashing man. But most of all, she’d have to pretend that she hadn’t seen the man she thought she wanted to marry carousing with a woman of ill repute, something he supposedly did on a regular basis. Justin had said George liked to fight. He’d never appeared violent to her; quite the contrary, he seemed rather docile.
Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she ignored them, allowing them to come freely now. Is that what marriage to George would be like? She’d be at home waiting for him and he’d be out all night gambling and sleeping with other women? Certainly not. This was her George. She knew him, didn’t she? And Rebecca had approved of him. Obviously, other maternal types did as well or there wouldn’t be such a long list of women vying for his proposal. More than likely he was attempting to sow his wild oats until they married.
But what if?
What about all of those times she’d given him hints that she wouldn’t mind holding his hand or having a longer than was proper embrace? And the kiss they’d shared? She’d initiated it, but then she’d pulled away when things had heated up too much. Because unlike Justin’s heated kiss that slid desire through her body, once her kiss with George had intensified, she’d felt something alarmingly like fear.
It couldn’t be fear of George himself, though. More than likely it was fearing what he’d think if he saw the real her. What would George think of the Clarissa that didn’t always say the right thing, that felt the music too much when she played?
What if the entire reason George hadn’t proposed to her was her? Had she worked too hard trying to be the perfect lady, behaved too properly? Had she been too buttoned-up and cold for him to find attractive? Rebecca had died before she’d been able to explain all that there was between a man and a woman. Perhaps she hadn’t been wrong about George, but merely hadn’t yet detailed to Clarissa everything there was about a man’s needs.
When they’d dance, he’d told her on more than one occasion that she was the most beautiful woman in the room. But perhaps he was merely being polite, charming. Yet Justin was always able to elicit a passionate response from her. His kisses didn’t make her feel nervous in the least. Perhaps he was right and it all simmered just beneath the surface and she merely needed a reason to let it out. She seemed to have little trouble with that in Justin’s company. She knew George would never sneak into her house and find her bedchamber in the middle of the night. Perhaps there was a reason for that. If he didn’t think his advances were welcomed, if he didn’t think he’d find a passionate and willing lover on the other side of her door, there would be no reason for him to visit her.
But what if she kissed George again and allowed him whatever liberty he chose to take? What would he do? Perhaps it would change the course of everything. If she could share a kiss with George, as sensual a kiss as the ones she’d shared with Justin that might change George’s mind. There was no reason to believe a kiss with one man over the other couldn’t be just as passionate. Even more so because of her feelings for George. Then perhaps it would persuade George that she was a desirable woman. Then he wouldn’t need to go and find and pay another woman for things that Clarissa could certainly learn to do.
She felt a momentary pang at the thought of Justin and the intimacy they’d shared in the carriage. There had been that instant when she had thought he might offer some sign of affection himself, but he hadn’t. No, Justin was not for her. George was still the man for her.
She needed lessons in seduction and knew precisely who to ask to teach them to her.
Chapter Nine
Justin and his brother met for luncheon fairly regularly, and he was not certain today he’d be much company. His mind was otherwise engaged. Thinking about George Wilbanks, Rafferty’s, and Clarissa.
All of Justin’s other inquiries about the man had come up empty. Whatever else George did with his time, besides patronize Rafferty’s, he was discreet about it. That was one thing in his favor. Justin had to wonder what the hell the man was doing courting her if he had no intention of marrying her. Perhaps their visit to Rafferty’s last night had changed her mind about George.
Justin had hurt her, he knew that and he hated it. But he didn’t regret taking her, revealing the truth to her. Were she to marry George she should at least go into such a union not being completely ignorant of her husband’s behavior.
Roe was late, as was his custom. “People expect me to be late,” he’d say. “I’m a duke.” There wasn’t much, other than cards, that Roe took seriously and he seemed to enjoy watering-down the title their father had so desperately loved. Roe knew he wasn’t any different than any other man, any better than them. But he did enjoy toying with people.
Finally he arrived looking better than he had the other day, but still somewhat disheveled.
“You know, Rodale,” he said as he removed his hat and sat at the table. “If someone coming into this club didn’t know either one of us and was told that one of us was the Duke of Chanceworth, they would probably assume it was you. Why must you insist on showing me up?”
Justin glanced at his brother over his newspaper, then folded it and set it on the table. “I bathe regularly and have my clothes pressed. I hardly see how that is my showing you up. In any case, you’re late.”
It was understood that Roe would always be late and that Justin would always comment on it.
“Yes, shoot me. There was wretched traffic. Poor Lady Gramble lost a wheel on her new curricle and tied up all of Bond Street.” Roe sighed dramatically.
The footman came and brought them today’s fare, an earthy and aromatic lamb stew with hot buttered bread on the side.
“I’m not certain when I ate last, but this smells delicious,” Roe said. He took a bite then swore loudly. “That’s bloody hot.”
Justin chuckled. “You should wait and let it cool.”
Roe swore, but pushed the bowl aside for a moment. He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “So tell me, what news do you have to tell me today?”
Justin stirred his stew, trying to cool the hot soup. “Nothing. I am courting that girl and I suspect my attention is working to some degree. I’m told she danced with two other gentlemen the other night. And that a third asked if she would be attending the theatre later this week.”
“Ah yes, how are you enjoying your latest foray into polite society?”
“It’s entertaining,” Justin said. They ate in silence for a few moments before Justin spoke again. “In particular the rumors about my lineage.”
Roe looked up over the table. “Oh, now that sounds interesting.” He tried another bite, and this one went down much easier.
“Yes, evidently my mother was French royalty. I overheard as much at a ball the other night.”
“It could be true.” Roe shrugged. “Don’t suppose we know.”
“It seems highly unlikely.” Justin took a bite of his own stew and chewed thoughtfully. “And well, all the pertinent players are already dead.”
“Unless she’s still alive.”
“My mother?” Justin certainly lived as if that were true. He’d been looking for her for years and until he uncovered her identity and found out for certain that she was dead, he would believe her alive. But he would not tell Roe that. “It’s doubtful.”
They ate in silence for a few moments before Justin spoke again. “I discovered that George Wilbanks frequents Rafferty’s.”
Roe whistled. “Are you still investigating him?” He held up a hand. “I won’t ask, but I suspect it involves a certain fair-haired chit.”
Justin grinned in spite of himself. “Rafferty’s is not a place for genteel women.”
“Did he take said genteel woman there?”
“No.” But Justin had. Guilt knotted in his stomach. What the devil had he been thinking to take Chrissy to such a place? Even safely ensconced in a carriage, what if she had been seen? He was the worst sort of ass. Still he hadn’t known another way to show her George’s true nature.
“Why don’t you simply court the girl yourself and be done with it? Marry her and have little blonde, blue-eyed devils.”
If only it were that simple. “You know I cannot do that. Clarissa deserves more than to be the wife of someone the likes of me.”
“She could do a lot worse too, as you’ve discovered with the Wilbanks fellow. He might inherit a title, but with you she’d never want for anything. You have more money than God,” Roe said.
“True.” But he could never marry Clarissa, as appealing as that notion sounded. “How is the playing going?”
“Excellent,” Roe said, allowing him to change the subject. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve heard a rumor though. About a new player at Rodale’s. Any truth to it?”
Justin nodded. “Ah yes, a young man. But he plays in the back room rather than the main floor.”
“Is he any good?”
Justin nodded. “He hasn’t lost yet.” Ever since Clipps had brought the young man to Justin’s attention, they’d been watching him carefully. So far he’d shown no signs of cheating. “Scrawny fellow, but he seems to be on the up and up.”
“I want to play him,” Roe said.
Justin shook his head. “You know that isn’t going to happen. There are men on the main floor that would be none too pleased if I allowed someone from the back room to play among them. They are not interested in mixing with the servants and commoners.”